‘And governments are made up of men and women—like you or me. If we make our protests loud enough and long enough…’ she sighed in fond exasperation when David shook his head.
‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he told her mildly. ‘Sit back and enjoy the scenery. I refuse to have my journey home ruined by a discussion on politics. I’ve got enough of that to contend with during the day.’
Storm was instantly remorseful, remembering his discussions with the Authority, but the ineffectualness of the programme lingered on, niggling, when she tried to relax her mind into other channels.
‘Shall I see you tonight?’ she asked David casually.
He shook his head.
“Fraid not. I’ve got to get some work done if I’m going to be ready to face the sort of inquisition Jago will have in mind. Why don’t you go out with Pete and that crowd?’ he asked her.
That was another good thing about David, Storm reflected. He wasn’t at all possessive. In a mature, well-balanced relationship there should be no need for jealousy.
The duck-egg blue sky was turning primrose when David stopped the car at the end of her parents’ drive. Leaning across her to open the door, he kissed her lightly.
Storm’s mother was in the garden. A placid, plump woman in her late fifties, she often found it difficult to understand how she had managed to produce such a turbulent firebrand.
Storm was the youngest of the family and the only girl. Both her brothers had left home several years earlier. John, the elder, was a mining engineer who lived and worked in Australia, making very infrequent trips home. Ian, three years older than Storm, was an oil technician who spent half his life commuting between various far-flung outposts of the world, looking for oil, and consequently he too was a rare visitor to the sprawling old house, nestling against the protective lee of the Cotswolds.
‘I thought I ought to cut the last of the roses before the frost gets them,’ Mrs Templeton said to Storm. ‘It makes the garden look so bare, though,’ she added, looking regretfully at her denuded bushes. ‘David drop you off?’
‘Mm. Let me carry those for you,’ Storm offered, relieving her mother of her secateurs and gloves. Although her parents were quite fond of David, Storm sensed that they did not entirely favour her relationship with him. They were such a pair of romantics, she thought affectionately, no doubt they would have preferred her to fall fathoms deep in love. Her mind shied away from the prospect, apprehension shivering through her, as she admitted that she was frightened of the commitment such a relationship would entail. Deep waters were not for her, she decided firmly as she followed her mother into the house.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ Mrs Templeton warned as Storm headed for the stairs.
‘I’ll just have a quick shower, then,’ Storm replied.
Because of the amount of equipment crammed into their inadequate premises it was always uncomfortably warm in the studios and Storm liked to refresh herself with a shower before sitting down for her evening meal.
What would Jago Marsh make of their premises? she wondered, a sardonic smile touching her lips as she prepared for dinner. The offices themselves were bad enough, but worse by far was their outdated and hopelessly inefficient equipment. Their outside broadcast van had barely passed its M.O.T., in fact Pete had sworn that it was purely on account of Storm’s pleading violet eyes that it had scraped through at all, and so it was with all their gear. Mikes failed to operate, turntables refused to turn; splicers tangled the tapes, and it was always the exhausted staff who had to work on painstakingly righting the faults caused by unreliable equipment. Storm’s lip curled as she thought of Jago Marsh sitting up nursing a faulty transmitter. Well, he was in for a few shocks if he expected his existence to be cushioned with velvet once he joined Radio Wyechester, she thought with grim satisfaction.
Her parents were already seated when she entered the dining room. Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university, a tall, still handsome man in his late fifties, with a pronounced sense of humour, and a comprehensive understanding of the young.
Although there were only the three of them left at home, Mrs Templeton insisted on a certain degree of formality for their evening meal, and although breakfast was normally a rushed affair with Storm swallowing a quick cup of coffee, standing up in the kitchen, and Mr Templeton munching toast, hidden behind his newspaper, dinner was always a leisurely meal, eaten with due regard for the digestion.
Her mother was an excellent cook, and since Storm had no need to worry about her weight, she tucked into her steak and kidney pie with every evidence of enjoyment.
Richard Templeton lectured in economics and had the dissecting mind of the intellectual. The Templeton household had never suffered from a lack of stimulating conversation, and the dinner table had been a favourite platform for the younger generation to launch its attacks on the elder throughout the boys’ and Storm’s adolescence. Nowadays there were no longer heated discussions about pop singers and curfews, nevertheless Storm enjoyed pitting her wits against her father’s razor-sharp mind—Templeton Père had the disquieting knack of sniffing out the weaker points of an argument, although what she lost in logic Storm more than made up for in vehemence.
‘Had a good day, Storm?’ Mrs Templeton enquired when she had served the apple pie. Storm had been somewhat subdued during the meal, and it struck her that she was looking far from happy.
‘Not really,’ Storm admitted. Her parents knew all about the problems suffered by the station, and both waited sympathetically to hear her news.
‘We’re being allowed to keep our licence,’ she told them, ‘but with certain provisos—one of which is Jago Marsh.’
‘The Jago Marsh?’ her father enquired with some interest. ‘Well, I don’t know why that should make you look so miserable. If you ask me he’s just what your outfit needs. Incredible, the progress he’s made during the last few years. There can’t be many people more experienced in the media today, and I’m sure he’ll be able to do a damned sight more for you than David’s ineffectual…’ He broke off as his wife kicked him warningly under the table.
‘I’m sorry, Storm,’ he apologised, ‘but although I like David, I don’t think he’s cut out for such a competitive business. I never have done…’
‘But you admire a man like Jago Marsh,’ Storm said bitterly, ‘a man who constantly features in the gossip columns—changes his girl-friends like other men change their shirts, is known to be completely ruthless and.…’
‘Most reprehensible,’ her father agreed, surveying her flushed cheeks with twinkling eyes. ‘What is it that you object to most, Storm? That he’s been appointed to try and make some order out of David’s chaos, or his romantic proclivities?’
‘I object to everything about him,’ Storm retorted, abandoning her attempts to reason logically. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s the original male chauvinist pig!’
Mr Templeton raised an eyebrow ‘You know him?’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ Storm said crossly. ‘I’ve read about him. I’ve heard him lecture, I’ve actually seen him say that women have no place in radio…’
‘Scarcely the basis on which to claim a knowledge of the man,’ her father pointed out. ‘Look, Storm, I can understand how you feel, in some ways, but I think you’re deliberately blinding yourself to the truth. Just because you personally don’t like the Jago Marsh you’ve created in your imagination it doesn’t mean that he won’t do a good job. How often have you come home bemoaning the fact that David has squashed one of your ideas?’
It was true.
‘That’s different,’ she protested.
‘Because you’re the one to do the criticising? Not good enough, my girl, pure feminine logic. Not good enough